Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Sierra Oriente

Some can’t do a long life if it’s too shortor their wings wet and refusing to dry.They can’t fly then. Their breath quits trying toovercome what they fear most, the imageof flesh peeling off as fire licks their bones.The voice is gone. It goes first. Who knows where?I thought I knew. I said to the master,Help me go where I can gain masteryover fear of failure, of death, the mutecaroling in my head of bells tollingfrom one end of the plaza, mercadoo cementerio in Cuetzalan, where living neither there nor here I knewsecrets would be found if I were liftedto the sierra. The great wings were dryby then, lost I would be found, the bodyilluminating its treacherous caves,what could be smuggled over life’s border.(22 May 2013)copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander